Grinding his teeth, he flipped through the report, seeing nothing.
He was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, the High Lord of Hell. He should set an example, should act with dignity.
He dropped the report on his desk and left his study.
Screw dignity.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at a point that was midway between his study and the front door. From there he could comfortably watch everything without being stepped on. Maybe.
Fighting to keep a straight face, Saetan listened to Beale accept one implausible excuse after another for why this footman or that maid just had to be in the great hall at that moment.
Intent on their busy chaos and excuses, no one noticed the front door open until a very rumpled Mephis said, "Beale, could you—Never mind, the footmen are already here. There are some packages—"
Mephis glared at the footmen scrambling out the door before he spotted Saetan. Weaving his way through the maids, Mephis walked over to Saetan, braced himself against the wall, and sighed wearily. "She'll be here in a minute. She pounced on Tarl as soon as the carriage stopped to consult him on the state of her garden."
"Lucky Tarl," Saetan murmured. When Mephis snorted, he studied his rumpled son. "A difficult trip?"
Mephis snorted again. "I never realized one young girl could turn an entire city upside down in just five days." He puffed his cheeks. "Fortunately, I'll only have to help with the paperwork. The negotiations will fall squarely into your lap . . . where they belong."
Saetan's eyebrow snapped up. "What negotiations? Mephis, what—"
A few footmen returned, carrying Jaenelle's luggage. The others . . .
Saetan watched with growing interest as smiling footmen brought in armloads of brown-paper packages and headed for the labyrinth of corridors that would eventually take them to Jaenelle's suite.
"They aren't what you think," Mephis grumbled.
Since Mephis knew he'd been hoping Jaenelle would buy more clothes, Saetan growled in disappointment. Sylvia's idea of appropriate girl clothes hadn't included a single dress, and the only concession she and Jaenelle had made to his insistence that everyone at the Hall dress for dinner was one long black skirt and two blouses. When he had pointed out—and very reasonably, too—that trousers, shirts, and long sweaters weren't exactly feminine, Sylvia had given him a scalding lecture, the gist of it being that whatever a woman enjoyed wearing was feminine and anything she didn't enjoy wearing wasn't, and if he was too stubborn and old-fashioned to understand that, he could go soak his head in a bucket of cold water. He hadn't quite forgiven her yet for saying they would have to look hard to find a bucket big enough to fit his head into, but he admired the sass behind the remark.
Then Jaenelle bounded through the open door, dazzling Beale and the rest of the staff with a smile before politely asking Helene if she could have a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice sent to her suite.
She looks happy, Saetan thought, forgetting about everything else.
After Helene hurried off to the kitchen and Beale herded the remaining staff back to their duties, Saetan pushed away from the wall, opened his arms . . . and fought the sudden nausea as Menzar's fantasies and memories flooded his mind. He cringed at the thought of touching Jaenelle, of somehow dirtying the warmth and high spirits that flowed from her. He started to lower his arms, but she walked into them, gave him a rib-squeezing hug, and said, "Hello, Papa."
He held her tightly, breathing in her physical scent as well as the dark psychic scent he'd missed so keenly during the last few days.
For a moment, that dark scent became swift and penetrating.
But when she leaned back to look at him, her sapphire eyes told him nothing. He shivered with apprehension.
Jaenelle kissed his cheek. "I'm going to unpack. Mephis needs to talk." She turned to Mephis, who was still leaning wearily against the wall. "Thank you, Mephis. I had a grand time, and I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble."
Mephis gave her a warm hug. "It was a unique experience. Next time I'll be a little more prepared."
Jaenelle laughed. "You'd take me back to Amdarh?"
"Wouldn't dare let you go alone," Mephis grumped.
As soon as she was gone, Saetan slid an arm around Mephis's shoulders. "Come to my study. You could use a glass of yarbarah."
"I could use a year's sleep," Mephis grumbled.
Saetan led his eldest son to the leather couch and warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Sitting on a footstool, Saetan rested Mephis's right foot on his thigh, removed the shoe and sock, and began a soothing foot massage. After a few silent minutes, Mephis roused enough to remember the yarbarah and take a sip.
Continuing his massage, Saetan said quietly, "So tell me."
"Where do you want me to start?"
Good question. "Do any of those packages contain clothes?" He couldn't keep the wistful note out of his voice.
Mephis's eyes gleamed wickedly. "One. She bought you a sweater." Then he yelped.
"Sorry," Saetan muttered, gently rubbing the just-squeezed toes while the mutter turned into a snarl. "I don't wear sweaters. I also don't wear nightshirts." He flinched as the words released more memories. Carefully setting Mephis's right foot down, he stripped off the left shoe and sock and began massaging that foot.
"It was difficult, wasn't it?" Mephis asked softly.
"It was difficult. But the debt's been paid." Saetan worked silently for another minute. "Why a sweater?"
Mephis sipped the yarbarah, letting the question hang. "She said you needed to slouch more, both physically and mentally."
Saetan's eyebrow snapped up.
"She said you'd never sprawl on the couch and take a nap if you were always dressed so formally."
Oh, Mother Night. "I'm not sure I know how to sprawl."
"Well, I heartily suggest you learn." Mephis sent the empty glass skimming through the air until it slid neatly onto a nearby table.
"You've got a mean streak in your nature, Mephis," Saetan growled. "What's in the damn packages?"
"Mostly books."
Saetan remembered not to squeeze the toes. "Books? Perhaps my old wits have gone begging, but I was under the impression we have a very large room full of books. Several, in fact. They're called libraries."
"Apparently not these kinds of books."
Saetan's stomach was full of butterflies. "What kind?"
"How should I know?" Mephis grumbled. "I didn't see most of them. I just paid for them. However . . ."
Saetan groaned.
". . . at every bookseller's shop—and we went to every one in Amdarh—the waif would ask for books about Tigrelan or Sceval or Pandar or Centauran, and when the booksellers showed her legends and myths about those places that were written by Dhemlan authors, she would politely—she was always polite, by the way—tell them she wasn't interested in books of legends unless they came directly from those people. Naturally the booksellers, and the crowd of customers that gathered during these discussions, would explain that those Territories were inaccessible places no one traded with. She would thank them for their help, and they, wanting to stay in her good graces and have continued access to my bank account, would say, 'Who is to say what is real and what is not? Who has seen these places?' And she would say, 'I have,' and pick up the books she'd already purchased and be out the door before the bookseller and customers could pick their jaws up from the floor."
Saetan groaned again.
"Want to hear about the music?"